Raoul & Marguerite

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Masqueraders, 1875–78
by Raimundo de Madrazo y Garreta, 1841–1920
This darling little story by French humorist, Alphonse Allais is not always easy to locate, so I thought I'd take a minute this morning to type it up and pass it on to you here on my blog. It is perfect for Mardi Gras, Valentine's Day, or Purim, so I want to post it quick, before all the Fleeting February Feast Days slip away!

A MOST PARISIAN EPISODE
by Alphonse Allais (1854 - 1905)
translated by Fredric Jameson

Chapter I
In which we meet a Lady and a Gentleman who might have known happiness, had it not been for their constant misunderstandings.

At the time when this story begins, Raoul and Marguerite (splendid names for lovers) have been married for approximately five months.
Naturally, they married for love.
One fine night Raoul, while listening to Marguerite singing Colonel Henry d'Erville's lovely ballad:

L'averse, chere a la grenouille,
Parfume le bois rajeuni.
…Le bois, il est comme Nini.
Y sent bon quand y s'debarbouille.

Raoul, as I was saying, swore to himself that the divine Marguerite (diva Margarita) would never belong to any man but himself.
They would have been the happiest of all couples, except for their awful personalities.
At the slightest provocation, pow! a broken plate, a slap, a kick in the ass.
At such sounds, Love fled in tears, to await, in the neighborhood of a great park, the always imminent hour of reconciliation.
O then, kisses without number, infinite caresses, tender and knowing, ardors as burning as hell itself.
You would have thought the two of them had fights only so they could make up again.

Chapter II
A short episode which, without directly relating to the action, gives the clientele some notions of our heroes' way of life.

One day, however, it was worse than usual.
Or, rather, one night.
They were at the Theatre d'Application, where, among other things, a play by M. Porto-Riche, The Faithless Wife, was being given.
"Let me know," snarled Raoul, "when you're through looking at Grosclaude."
"And as for you," hissed Marguerite, "pass me the opera glasses when you've got Mademoiselle Moreno down pat."
Begun on this note, the conversation could end only in the most unfortunate reciprocal insults.
In the hansom cab that took them home, Marguerite delighted in plucking at Raoul's vanity as at an old, broken-down mandolin.
So it was that no sooner back home than the belligerents took up their respective positions.
Hand raised to strike, with a remorseless gaze, and a moustache bristling like that of a rabid cat, Raoul bore down on Marguerite, who quickly stopped showing off.
The poor thing fled, as hasty and furtive as the doe in the north woods.
Raoul was on the point of laying hands on her.
It was at that moment that the brilliant invention of the greatest anxieties flashed within her little brain.
Turning suddenly about, she threw herself into the arms of Raoul, crying, "Help, my darling Raoul, save me!"

Chapter III
In which our friends are reconciled as I would wish you also to be frequently reconciled.

………………………………………………………………
………………………………………………………………
[ellipses in original]
Chapter IV
As to how people who get involved in things that are none of their affair would do better to mind their own business.

One morning Raoul received the following message:

"If you would like just once to see your wife in a good mood,
go on Thursday to the Bal des Incoherents at the Moulin-Rouge.
She will be there, with a mask and disguised as a Congolese Dugout.
A word to the wise is sufficient! -- A FRIEND."

The same morning, Marguerite received the following message:

"If you would like just once to see your husband in a good mood,
go on Thursday to the Bal des Incoherents at the Moulin-Rouge.
He will be there, with a mask and disguised as a fin-de-siecle Knight Templar.
A word to the wise is sufficient! -- A FRIEND."

These missives did not fall on deaf ears.
With their intentions admirable dissimulated, when the fatal day arrived:

"My dear," Raoul said with his innocent look, "I shall be forced to leave you until tomorrow. Business of the greatest urgency summons me to Dunkirk."

"Why that's perfect," said Marguerite with delightful candor. "I've just received a telegram from Aunt Aspasia, who, desperately ill, bids me to her bedside."

Chapter V
In which today's wild youth is observed in the whirl of the most illusory and transitory pleasures, instead of thinking on eternity.

The social column of the Diable boiteux was unanimous in proclaiming this year's Bal des Incoherents as having unaccustomed brilliance.
Lots of shoulders, no few legs, not to mention accessories.
Two of those present seemed not to take part in the general madness: a fin-de-siecle Knight Templar and a Congolese Dugout, both hermetically masked.
At the stroke of three a.m. exactly, the Knight Templar approached the Dugout and invited her to dine with him.
In reply the Dugout placed a tiny hand on the robust arm of the Templar, and the couple went off.

Chapter VI
In which the plot thickens.
"Leave us for a moment," said the Templar to the waiter, "we will make our choice and call you."
The waiter withdrew, and the Templar locked the door to the private room with care.
Then, with a sudden gesture, having set his own helmet aside, he snatched away the Dugout's mask.
Both at the same instant cried out in astonishment, neither one recognizing the other.
He was not Raoul.
She was not Marguerite.
They apologized to each other and were not long in making acquaintance on the occasion of an excellent supper, need I say more.

Chapter VII
Happy ending for everyone, except the others.

This little mesaventure was a lesson to Raoul and Marguerite.
From that moment on, they no longer quarreled and were utterly happy.
They don't have lots of children yet, but they will.

THE END
CODA, by Anon.

In which Raoul and Marguerite and Scheherazade attend Whose Party and depart after an evening of fun, or so it seemed.

As the door shut behind them, Raoul muttered crudely and jealously, "He likes your ass."

Before Marguerite could formulate a response of any kind, Scheherazade announced brightly: "Who doesn't?"

See, that's what makes Scheherazade a storyteller. Because in one inspired, well-timed, and heart-felt remark, she rendered Marguerite innocent of any implied wrong-doing and established Raoul's remark as foolish and churlish. Simultaneously, raising the interpretation of Whose behavior from leering to admiration, and establishing her loyalty to Marguerite.

A good friend and a good storyteller -- Scheherazade was both!*


Harmony in Flesh Colour and Red, 1869
by James Abbott McNeill Whistler, 1834 - 1903
[embellished by Yours Truly]

*"It is not often that
someone comes along
who is a true friend
and a good writer.
Charlotte was both."

from Charlotte's Web
by E. B. White

************
SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Thursday, March 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading ~ See Carnival www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Dark Within Dark Within Dark

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS
Romantic Sheepskin ~♥~ Wallet

"Keep the Faith" might not be an obvious love poem, but I think it's a good one for today, with its theme of darkness and depression to match our collective SADness, winter blues, and sunlight deprivation. And, sweetly, after all the darkness, there's a happy ending that revolves around the image of a folded heart -- a Valentine!

I've had a fading, mimeographed copy of this poem by Jack Butler in one of my old notebooks since college days, though in all honesty I cannot recall how or where I first came across it, back in 1983 or so. Was it a class assignment? Did Butler visit campus and give a reading that I attended? Despite my hazy memory of how the poem made its way into my collection of favorites, I could never forget the narrator's despairing descent into that "darkness somewhere in which you do not love me":

Keep the Faith
I think perhaps there is some darkness somewhere
in which you do not love me. Falling to sleep,
I cross that simple zone in which I keep
my solitary vigil. I am there.
And the blue truth of my being is also there,
that I am worth nothing, a heatless flame.

I am that territory and its name.
It is no place for strangers: Beware, Beware
floats over its dark coast in letters of blue fire
that are not reflected in the dark water lapping rock.

Falling to sleep, I think there is some darkness somewhere
In which you do not love me, dark within dark within dark.
I think, Maybe my wallet, folded like a heart
in the dark of my locked briefcase, in the dark of our bedroom.

And then tomorrow, standing in the stink and fume
at the daylit gas-pump, all of us hurrying to work,
my blunt fingers will be astounded to discover
only green bills, that I love and have a lover.

by Jack Butler
American poet (b 1944)

Two more descriptions
of the interior of depression, the "solitary vigil":
1. from Lydia Cassatt Reading the Morning Paper
by Harriet Chessman, American novelist (b 1951)

This is a work of historically accurate fiction narrated from the point of view of the artist Mary Cassatt's sister, Lydia. Chessman's lengthy description of the taunting message of self-doubt that plays over and over in Lydia's head reminded me of Butler's poem. Lydia's specific doubts are about being a suitable artist's model for her sister; but more generally, for Lydia and for everyone, the doubts are always about being lovable, worthy of love. In a vivid and painful image, Lydia refers to the emotional noise as a "thousand bees," buzzing all around and stinging her. She berates herself mentally, but her anguish feels nearly physical, akin to the tortured practice of girls cutting themselves. In a similar manner, she goes on to explain that she is both the queen bee and the "object of their attacks," which I now realize is the same thing Butler means when he says that "I am that territory and its name." The problem is circular, not linear:

". . . I think to myself, with hesitant pride, yes, I am, I am quite a good model, and as soon as I think this, I chasten and mock myself, sending my thousand little bees to sting me, and sing their disdain: How could you think, the song always begins, and the thousand bees hum and mumble and murmur into my ear, adding new verses as they find new places to thrust their stingers in. All you've done is sit here, they hum, and you're not even pretty, you're pale as a ghost and a bag of bones too, and then the fiercer ones sing, She's changed you into a figure of beauty, through oil and canvas, but how can you think she's pictured you as you really are? I'm used to these insects. I seem to own them, after all. They occupy a special place on my acre, complete with bee - boxes I myself seem to tend, in my veils and gloves. I'm their queen, as much as I'm the sorry object of their attacks. They fatten on my clover and apple - blossoms and honeysuckle, and they practice their songs in the warm sun on my meadow. So I can't blame anyone but myself when they come to sting" (31 - 32).

Five O'Clock Tea, 1880


2. from The Dogs of Babel
by Carolyn Parkhurst, American novelist (b 1971)
(see Highlights from 2006 & 2007 on my Book List)

Parkhurst's character Lexy Ransome would understand the buzzing, stinging bees of Lydia's self - doubt. Lexy too is trapped in a relentless cycle of replaying the negative interior tapes, hearing the harsh criticism, trying to tune it out, recognizing that she herself is the source of the noise, imploring her smart voice to repeat all the wise mantras that she knows to be true, anything to shout down those bees. Again, I was reminded of Butler's poem: "the blue truth of my being is also there, / that I am worth nothing, a heatless flame." The voice of worthlessness, doubt, and insecurity keeps buzzing: you're so stupid, you're so stupid . . . you shouldn't be here, you shouldn't be here . . . sorry sorry sorry. Things like that. Lexy wonders how alien such internal conflict must seem to the self - confident:

"You wake up and you feel -- what? Heaviness, an ache inside, a weight, yes. A soft crumpling of flesh. A feeling like all the surfaces have been rubbed raw. A voice in your head -- no, not voices, not like hearing voices, nothing that crazy, just your own inner voice, the one that says 'Turn left at the corner' or 'Don't forget to stop at the post office,' only now it's saying 'I hate myself' . . . you try to find pleasure in little things . . . but you can tell you're trying too hard. You have breakfast with your husband, your sweet unknowing husband, who can't see anything but the promise of a bright new day. And you say your apologies -- you're sorry, you're always sorry, it's a feeling as familiar as the taste of water on your tongue" (252 - 253).

What would it take for Lydia and Lexy to feel "the promise of a bright new day," to "Keep the Faith," to believe that they are worthwhile as they are? What magical formula, prescription, philosophical stance or inner resources could redirect the bees and quiet the voice of judgment? How did the bees get in there in the first place? Who installed the tapes?

How profound, how accurate is Butler's description of the hurtful, doubtful landscape of isolation inside one's head: "no place for strangers . . . dark within dark within dark." The only way to feel loved once again is to extricate yourself from that "dark coast . . . the dark water lapping rock" -- not always easy. No one can come in and get you; you have to save your own life -- by believing that you are likeable and lovable. I've never really come up with a totally satisfactory interpretation of Butler's closing wallet image, except perhaps to assume that in broad daylight the narrator gains the perspective and security to see that his night fears are unfounded. To see, in the restorative light of day, "that I love and have a lover."

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Thursday, February 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Lydia Cassatt Working at the Tapestry Loom, 1881

Pastiche

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Greeting Card Collage
To collage the classics. To repurpose. Two weeks ago, I concluded with a promise (to Eileen) to look further into these concepts. Here, for example, is the visual collage that I created in my undergraduate Women's Studies Class, a successful completion of the assignment, I'm sure:

However, it became a problem when I took a similar approach to my written work as well. I was warned against the pastiche: "literary patchworks formed by piecing together extracts from various works by one or several authors" (A Handbook to Literature, Holman & Harmon). But I liked the pastiche! And I like that it comes from the French pastiche = "a medley made up of fragments from different works" . . . and from the Italian pasticcio = "medley, pastry, cake, pasta, paste." Which brings us to collage = "a pasting." Perfect!

Last time, it was a bouquet of flowers; this time it's a tea tray of pastries. Sweet! Who could object? The pastiche may be derivative but Wikipedia assures us that the pastiche celebrates! And so does my friend Paula! Although she doesn't use the precise word, she offers these encouraging words about pastiching (is that a verb? it is now!):

"I’ve been reading lately that it is bad for one’s blog (GASP! O no!) to post bits and pieces of the web with just a little text of my own, because it will cheapen my brand and make me seem like a moocher. I generally try to follow that advice. Hey, wait! What brand? Aging baby boomer pinko crank? Who am I trying to kid here? The fact is, that’s somebody’s opinion, and there’s every chance in the world that it’s wrong, since I never read one piece of advice without reading its exact opposite within 24 hours. Does that happen to you too? But, since this blog ain’t a money-making, mind-blowing dream machine pumping out pro-blogger amounts of traffic, who cares?"

When left to our own devices, we feel free to pastiche, collage, re - purpose, and juxtapose. To connect! Go Paula! Go Eileen!

I learned to love the literary pastiche early, thanks in part to this this well - worn anthology of middle - brow poetry. Perfect for a middle - schooler, this collection was among my favorite books for as long as I can remember.

The American Album of Poetry
compiled by American radio personality
Ted Malone, 1908 - 1989
As the story goes, my mother brought our old maroon copy home from work years before I was ever born, or maybe borrowed it from a friend and never got around to returning it -- something like that, you know, one of those apocryphal anecdotes of how a certain book was fated to enter your life and find a home on your shelf. Anyway, I have to trust that the original owner was a forgiving soul, because my young reader's heart was opened by the presence of that book in our household. It didn't have to contain the best poetry ever written, it just had to be tender and accessible and introduced by a companionable, articulate editor who knew how to polish each little gem and show it in its best light -- not with paragraphs of analysis but in snippets.

As pointed out in the introduction by Joseph Auslander, this was not your typical anthology, this was Ted Malone's album, containing neither studio portraits nor formal photographs, but snapshots of poetry; nothing well - known, yet everything familiar. Writes Auslander, "The treatment of the Album is distinctive. There are twenty - six sections, each with a fresh and engaging title ["But, Definitely!" "First Person, Singular," "Wit or Without, Brevity is the Soul," "Sing Me A Song of Social Significance"]. And throughout the book, connecting poem with poem, is Ted Malone's friendly running comment ["It isn't so bad, a crowd of people running through your mind, but only two or three tramping through your heart," "Hold your breath while you read this one," "Close your eyes and read this one," "Six days shalt thou labor, six days shalt thou dream"]. Even before I got to the poetry I was charmed by these chapter headings and insightful little prologues to every single poem in the book. It turns out Malone was blogging! Paving the way! He was doing way back then what I like to do now on The Fortnightly and The Quotidian.

I've featured a couple of my old favorites from Malone's Album on earlier Fortnightly posts: "Thoughts of a Modern Maiden" in Time to Write a Letter and "Blue Willow" in That Old Blue Willow. About ten years ago, when more and more vintage books started appearing on amazon and ebay, I was lucky enough to track down a couple of copies of The American Album of Poetry, so that my mom and I could each have our own, and she could at last feel free to return our original copy to its original owner. The results of my search were rather thrilling! For my mom, an autographed copy:

and for me, a copy with the following note inscribed inside:

SAVE
Reminder: Save! Do Not Discard This Book

I quoted last two lines on p. 38
in my second mystery story he
published for me in 1948 and
for which I used pen name of
Julie Masterson instead of
J. F. as he would have
preferred.
~ J. F. ~
I have yet to determine who "J. F." might be or why her nearest and dearest allowed this book out of their hands (I purchased it from a bookseller, not an individual or family). Will I ever solve the mystery of these mystery stories by "Julie Masterson"? Was it Ted Malone who published them? In the meantime, I turned straight to page 38 and found -- to my surprise! (or maybe not!) -- another of my old favorites, one that I often used when teaching simile and metaphor:

Words

Our words are flame and ashes, fleet as breath,
Plumes for adventure, pageantry of death.

Our words are color -- yellow, blue, and red,
Drumbeat for marching, prayer for bed.

Words are our armor, they are our intent,
The coin we used along the way we went.

Grace Mansfield
Thanks Ted Malone for sharing your snapshots, blossoms, and tea cakes -- and for being a pre - blogger!

Thanks also to my supportive sisters Peggy Rosenbluth and Diane Burrows; and brothers Dave, Bruce, and Aaron Carriker (click each name to read their various guest columns on The Quotidian Kit). They support my blogging enterprise in a dozen different ways: sharing old photos and memories; recommending novels, poems, and recipes; providing insightful commentary on the complex issues of our troubled times; reading what I have written and offering constructive criticism.

In the early days of my blog, my older brother wrote to say: "You are a true master in linking nuggets of wisdom, wit, and rational thought, but I see so little of the inner Kit. Or perhaps, I just haven't been reading enough of your blogs."

I really liked his comment about my nugget - linking skills, because that's what I want to do and what I think I do best -- pastiche! I know some entries are just a quotation and / or picture, but I like doing that -- and it's always a good match, one that no one else would have thought of, or even found (because I'm the careful reader, that's my gift). I took his words to heart and trust that, as he read further, he encountered to a greater extent the voice of the inner Kit -- which I'm sure is there! -- in addition to the cut and paste -- pastiche!

My creative writing teacher in college once wrote in the margin of my paper: "What's at stake here?" I have never forgotten that comment. I think my brother may be asking a similar question. What I took away from his advice was the need to take more personal risk, go out on a limb, embarrass myself a little bit, move beyond "So what?"

To conclude this pastiche, here is one last little pastry
from my most recent reading:

"The tales of our exploits will survive as long as the human voice itself . . .
And even after that, when the robots recall the human absurdities
of sacrifice and compassion, they will remember us.
They will robot - laugh at our courageous folly . . .
But something in their iron robot hearts will yearn to have
lived and died as we did: on the hero's errand . . .
the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention."
(202, 312)

from the novel The Fault in Our Stars
written by the awesome & multi - talented John Green
recommended by my awesome & multi - talented son Ben McCartney
read aloud by my awewsome & mult - talented husband Gerry McCarntey

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Thursday, February 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

The Second Page

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

January Sunrise

Advice for the New Year:
"Arm yourself with clairvoyance!"
from French Composer and Pianist,
Erik Satie, 1866 - 1925
This is the beginning of Year Four for my Fortnightly blog of Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony, a mental space where the threads of art and life intertwine until a pattern emerges from the chaos. Four years ago, as I was getting the blog underway, my friend Eve -- also a writer and a teacher of writing -- asked me if I had a Dream Job in mind for my Inner Scholar. Indeed I did!

Back in September 2009, I posted my Mission Statement of what I hoped to accomplish in every blog post: to generate some literary analysis -- scholarly yet painless -- about how literature fits into every hour of every day; to share and interpret what I have recorded and remembered over the years; to include a running update of my current reading; and to explain how it all fits together with the little things that actually happen in real life throughout the course of any given day -- in manner of Mrs. Dalloway!

To celebrate the New Year -- and because January is a time to look backward as well as forward -- I thought I'd gather up the positive responses that I have received from supportive friends and readers who assure me that there's something to my project of combining the life, the literature, and the visuals.

For example, I was inspired by Len's view of my blog as an "anthology," in the medieval "flowers of literature" sense of the word. I learned something new that day -- that anthologia comes from anthos (flower) + logia (collection, collecting) = flower gathering. Similarly, florilegium in medieval Latin derives from flos (flower) + legere (to gather) = a gathering of flowers. These collections of "fine extracts from the body of a larger work" were initially culled from religious, philosophical, or scientific writings, eventually coming to describe books of botany (actual flowers!) as well as collections of poetry, epigrams, favorite quotations, and "beautiful passages from authors."

Literary flower gathering! Definitely a Dream Job! Thus is today's bouquet gathered from the encouraging words and unique perspectives for which I owe my kind followers -- such as Jack, for instance, who always praises, comments, and shares -- many, many thanks! To those mentioned above and below and all the hundred others who goad me on my way . . . I get by . . . gonna try . . . with a little help from my friends . . . and family: Gerry, who not only "likes" but loves me; and Ben and Sam who delight me every occasionally with a "Hey, Mom, I read your blog!" [Okay, I'm saving my long list of sibs for next time!]

Len also said -- "your blog is a public service"

Melinda said -- "thanks for always showing us the second page"

Charlotte said -- "thank you, Kitti, Assembler of Beautiful Juxtapositions"

My "lasting literary fan" Cate said --
"So glad you document all of this.
When people ask you what you do just tell them that you are a documentor.
What's that?
I document things silly. I am the observer."

Ann and Paula were both kind enough to review my blog on their blogs!

Jill most sweetly posted -- "I'm inviting my friends to visit my friend, Kitti's, blog. You will find that she writes, most eloquently, about a variety of interesting ideas and topics, some of which will surely capture your attention and, possibly, your heart."

Jan is always willing to share and collaborate -- "My dear friend Kitti knows literature like no one else. When I first met Kitti in graduate school, she said, 'Literature helps me live my life.' I have always remembered that. Today, Kitti dedicated her Fortnightly Blog entry to my writing. I am so humbled and touched. It's delightfully Kitti, and it's also me! What a treat."

Kisses to our mutual friend Jes who wrote: "How courageous of you to insist on beauty and thoughtfulness every day in this, the 21st century! What a brave blogger you are! Thank you for drawing my attention to Jan's journal in your blog.

"Yay for both of you, journaling, blogging, thinking, creating! May the workings of your beautiful brains never cease. I've always had good taste in friends, you know. It's so reassuring to see that my instincts were then and are now perfectly sound"

And it must have been Victoria Amador who said -- "You have a way of synthesizing the ideas of literature and explaining them in a way that makes sense even in our mundane world. I think the essay is really your literary forte--forget about the collegiate constraints and go for your own book of essays." [Like Vickie, "I hate to brag . . . well, that's not true!"]

Etta wrote at length: "I told you about the dooce blog because it makes me think of you. It's snarky, funny and in the end she knows what to value in life and can express it. In the end, she describes how I feel about life. I know that lots of your friends see those same things in you that I do.

"I have been appreciating your blog. I think the best part is your use of literary quotes to describe the joy in your life. It is put together like the Hallmark cards I always imagined you creating, but better. Who knew you would be so computer savvy? Your entries are beautifully crafted and written and terribly literary. (Those who can, should.) Do you think you will ever add daily life anecdotes? You and your family are terribly interesting and I would love to hear more. Tell us a good story about your kids.

"You are going to be unstoppable now. Who knew that you would be so inspirational in your writing. It seems like the whole world opens up to you when you read poetry, and I know you have many poems just waiting to share with us."

[Etta concluded, "I wish I had the nerve to post a comment but I'm not sure I have the courage to have lots of other people read my writing." Well, Et, now they have! Thanks for being so optimistic on my behalf, and for sharing with us all!]

Eileen suggested that "The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker is a medium whose own being is a message -- not a mere channel but an offerer of love / motivation / comfort to fit the occasion. Better than seemingly random information coming at you from the great beyond, it aids the receiver in transcending, more of a transmission, in its best sense, vs a trance-emission.
‎
"Creatively chosen, there is agency as well as receptivity, but it seems to me that some folks do their thing with an eye toward referring back to 'authorities' while others use extant literature creatively to respond to current circumstances, each more or less (just my bias, no slur on the first sort, just not my tribe). I like to collage the classical stuff and ~ omg! ~ I think I am about to say repurpose."

Collage? Repurpose? No kidding, Eileen! These terms are going to be just perfect my next post . . . see you in a fortnight!

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Monday, January 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Moons of Wintertime and Beyond

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

My Indian Maiden, with Rosemary Wreath
'Twas in the moon of winter-time
aka The Huron Carol
[click to hear sung by Chanticleer]

'Twas in the moon of winter-time
When all the birds had fled,
That mighty Gitchi Manitou
Sent angel choirs instead;
Before their light the stars grew dim,
And wondering hunters heard the hymn:
"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria."

Within a lodge of broken bark
The tender Babe was found,
A ragged robe of rabbit skin
Enwrapp'd His beauty round;
But as the hunter braves drew nigh,
The angel song rang loud and high:
"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria."

The earliest moon of wintertime
Is not so round and fair
As was the ring of glory on
the helpless infant there.
The chiefs from far before him knelt
With gifts of fox and beaver pelt.
Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria.

O children of the forest free,
O sons of Manitou,
The Holy Child of earth and heaven
Is born today for you.
Come kneel before the radiant boy
Who brings you beauty, peace and joy.
"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria."

1926 English translation
by Canadian poet, Jesse Edgar Middleton
based on the 1643 original by Jean de Brebeuf

Tonight is the Full Cold Moon of December, also called the Long Nights Moon when it is the full moon closest to the Winter Solstice, as it is this year. Unfortunately, the sky above my little spot on earth has been overcast every night this week, so I have not had any sightings of what is supposed to be an exceptionally bright full moon, the last and thirteenth (because August had two) full moon of 2012.

All I can do is keep checking the winter sky for a photo op. In the meantime, without boasting, please allow me share these extremely kind words from my friend Burnetta, regarding last month's moon:

Sometimes called, among other things,
The White Moon, The Dark Moon, or The Tree Moon
"The light in Indiana is a little different than the light here in Arkansas.

Kitti’s moons shimmer in bright light, vibrate in the colder northern air,
illuminating the landscape, with other worldly luminosity.

Her tree limbs reach out, touching the people who walk beneath the branches, attempting to alert them: watch out, walk softly, take your time.

Holidays glisten with still life arranged to celebrate the daily beauty.

Vegetables, fruits, flowers, garden implements, goblins, the little things that are taken for granted, until a day when rationality and identification demand that we look on our daily lives as parts of a puzzle, a desire to make sense of senseless life.

What is in a photo that gives us comfort and peace?
The moon, the trees, the things we use and throw away,
The light that is never quite the same."

~~ Thanks Burnetta! ~~

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My Upcoming Full Moon Calendar for 2013

January (this photo by Ben McCartney)

February

March

April

May

June

July

August

September

October

November

December

click to see
Full Moons for 2014 ~ "Never Quite the Same"
&
Full Moons for 2015 ~ "Time for a Moondance"

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Monday, January 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Day of Light

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Wall Tile for Lucia Day
by
Erkers Marie Persson
As with so many of the December customs, St. Lucia's Feast Day on the 13th is a celebration of light, vision, and enlightenment. Lucia, Lucy, Lux, Lucis -- all refer to Light. St. Lucia is a bringer of light -- in the form of candles, and breakfast in bed, early in the morning. And, as one who was violently deprived of her own eyesight, she has also become the patron saint of the blind.

Yesterday, Gerry and I brainstormed for a couple of songs in keeping with the day and came up with these; neither Christmas songs nor St. Lucy songs -- but a couple of our favorites on the theme of Light:

Blinded by the Light
"Mama always told me not to look into the eye's of the sun
But mama, that's where the fun is . . .
I tripped the merry-go-round
With this very unpleasin', sneezin' and wheezin,
the calliope crashed to the ground
Well she was
Blinded by the light
Revved up like a deuce
Another runner in the night. . . "
by
Bruce Springsteen
as performed by
Manfred Mann's Earth Band

and

I Saw the Light
"It was late last night
I was feeling something wasn't right
There was not another soul in sight
Only you, only you . . .
Then you gazed up at me and the answer was plain to see
'Cause I saw the light in your eyes . . . "
by Todd Rundgren

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ADDITIONAL LUCIA DAY TREASURES

1.
a Christmas song of "luminous light," perfect for the occasion:

Star of Bethlehem
lyrics by Leslie Bricusse
music by John Williams
from the Home Alone Soundtrack

Star of Bethlehem shining bright,
bathing the world in heav'nly light.
Let the glow of your distant glory
fill us with hope this Christmas night.

Star of innocence, star of goodness.
Gazing down since time began.
You who've lived through endless ages,
view with love the age of man.

Star of beauty hear our plea,
whisper your wisdom tenderly.
Star of Bethlehem set us free,
make us a world we long to see.

Star of Bethlehem, star on high,
miracle of the midnight sky.
Let your luminous light from heaven
enter our hearts and make us fly.

Star of happiness, star of wonder.
You see everything from afar.
Cast your eye upon the future,
make us wiser than we are.

Star of gentleness hear our plea,
whisper your wisdom tenderly.
Star of Bethlehem set us free
make us a world we long to see.

*******************************

2.

Thanks to my friend Cate
for these darling little Lucia Day Stickers

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3.
The most famous poem for this day,
John Donne's "Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day"
written back when the Winter Solstice occurred earlier in the month,
is featured in its entirety on an interesting blog: Gates of Vienna

It opens . . .

Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
The world's whole sap is sunk . . .

And closes . . .

Since she enjoys her long night's festival,
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is."

Click to hear it read aloud.

*******************************

4.
See also my post from last year: "Santa Lucia"
Betsy McCall Celebrates Lucia Day

*******************************

5.
And take a look at this 2007 post,
direct from Sweden,
by Tiffany!

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Friday, December 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ "Day of Light"
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com